Decisions
by ImogenBeech
Summary: Ron and Hermione finally have the house to themselves. But now that the kids are at school, what's left for them to talk about?
1. Chapter 1

_The characters and situations in the following story belong solely to J K Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic and Warner Bros. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._

Hermione took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The comfort spell was starting to wear off, but she was simply too tired to bother renewing it. It wasn't like she even needed glasses anyway – she just liked the way they looked. She blushed at her tiny act of vanity. If anyone found out, the embarrassment would cripple her.

"No danger of that happening," she thought to herself miserably. Even Ron didn't notice. Twenty years in and they were starting to show classic signs of marriage breakdown: he was always at the office; she was always complaining or drinking. Or both. The worst part was that he just didn't want to have sex anymore. After four _months _of trying on various lingerie, barely-there panties and see-through bras, he hadn't even batted an eyelid. Every night was the same with Ron: get home from work, eat dinner, watch TV, brush teeth, ignore semi-nude wife, and fall asleep.

It's not as if she looked bad, for Merlin's sake! She'd managed to age extremely well through a healthy lifestyle (and a knack with potions), and for a woman nearing forty she was still in great shape. She didn't have a grey hair on her head, and she still made an effort despite Ron's lack of appreciation. The truth was they were both just...bored. The kids were at Hogwarts now which meant they had more time together than they'd had in years. And for the life of her, Hermione could never think of anything to do. Except for one thing...but that was clearly out of the question.

For the millionth time she wondered if Ron was seeing someone else. Someone less...demanding than her, who wouldn't force him to do the dishes every night and make him look stupid. "Someone who can cook as well as his mother," she thought bitterly. She could never live up to the unattainable idol of womanhood that was Molly. Why should she even try?

Speaking of dinner...she quickly threw some fish and chips into the oven, and hoped they'd be ready before Ronald dearest got home. He was always so damn grumpy if he didn't get his food. Once again, the temptation to just disappear off somewhere and leave him to it, struck her. But that would be immature wouldn't it?

Wouldn't it?

There was a knock on the door. Obviously Ron had decided to take a walk today instead of the Floo. Good – maybe he was trying to get into shape again. Not that he was really _out _of shape. All things considered, she thought, her husband still had a nice arse.

"You have a key!" she called out.

"...Really?"

That wasn't Ron's voice. Not even close. But it did seem strangely familiar...

She got up, heart in her mouth, palms sweaty, and walked down the hall. A familiar shape was silhouetted against the frosted glass of the front door. She hadn't seen a pair of shoulders like that in over twenty years. She knew with a sudden certainty who they belonged to. Hoping that he couldn't see her, she paused in front of the mirror to check her hair. All in all, today was not a bad day. But there were slight bags under her eyes. Oh well, she had no time to fix that now.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Hello, Hermione."


	2. Chapter 2

"Viktor!" she gasped, "What a pleasant surprise!"

Hermioneleant against the doorframe, cheeks flushed, then caught herself and straightened up again, "What brings you all the way over here?"

Her mind and heart raced. What was he doing here?

He grinned, "I've been in England for a while, actually. Ten years."

She found herself glancing at his left hand as he spoke. No wedding ring. _Not_ that it mattered.

"Oh of course, you coach the team. I forgot you'd stopped playing." She remembered the reasons why – a career-damaging injury he'd suffered at the world cup – and winced, "Sorry, shouldn't have brought it up."

He was still smiling thankfully, "That's ok, it's all in the past. Are you going to invite me in?" His accent had faded, but it was still just obvious enough to give his voice a smooth, sexy edge.

She mentally slapped herself. Bad Hermione!

"Of course! Come in. I'll make you a cup of tea." She stepped aside, realising too late that she really hadn't left him enough room, and caught herself blushing even more as he squeezed past her, obviously making an effort not to touch more than necessary. "That means he wants to," she caught herself thinking. Shit shit shit, why in Merlin's name did he have to turn up now of all times?

He sat down at the table and she couldn't help but notice how he _filled up _their small kitchen, and not just physically. She flicked the kettle on – thankfully Ron didn't mind using muggle electricity in their house – and sat down opposite him.

"So," she said, as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Sorry, you go first," he gestured for her to talk. She realised with dismay that she had nothing to say. There was a short pause.

"All right; I'll go first," he grinned. Where had this sense of humour come from? Well, he'd always had it she supposed, it's just that it had never come across so well with his broken English. And for that matter, he seemed a lot more talkative, "I heard you have children."

"Yes," she smiled, "Two: Hugo and Rose. Both at Hogwarts now. How did you..?"

"Read it in the Potions Journal. They're always raving about you."

"You read that?" she tried not to sound gobsmacked.

"Yes," he laughed, "I read that. And it's your fault, Hermione. Before Triwizard I'd never even picked up a book unless it had something to do with sport. But when I met you, I realised there was more to life than Quidditch. You gave me the...learning bug."

He winked.

"I did?" she felt all warm inside, "I did. Good. What about you?"

"What about me what?" he held her gaze; it was distracting to say the least.

"Any children?"

"No," he sighed, "I uh – well I can't."

"That's dreadful! Why not?"

He blushed and muttered, "Blunt testicular trauma. With a bludger. No amount of spells could fix it. I was only twenty-three."

A horrible silence descended over the kitchen, and then the kettle clicked.

"I'll get it!" She said a bit too loudly, and jumped out of her chair. He stood with her.

"Let me help you."

"It's only tea," she smiled.

"All the same, I'll help you. Where are the mugs?"

She pointed to the cupboard behind him and he pulled down two mugs; forget-me-not blue for her and a plain white one for him. As she took them, an absurd urge to cry swept over her. And even more absurdly, she couldn't stop it.


End file.
